When in Bruges (Humorous Romantic Mystery) (20 page)

C
hris and Kate
, along with Lauren and Kirt, made their way to the back entrance of City Hall, where the security team Hock had hired was scheduled to meet. Coleen said she’d arrange everything and Kate just hoped they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew.

Arriving at the back entrance, they stepped into a chilly hallway, and Chris lead the way down a flight of worn stone stairs that led into the basement. As the son of a former mayor, Chris knew his way around the place. They found themselves inside an old furnace room and from there entered the servants’ dressing rooms, which apparently doubled as storage space for everything from moldy files to Christmas decorations and catering paraphernalia.

Four crusty-looking guys stood changing themselves into military-style costumes and eyed the newcomers curiously.

“Hey guys,” spoke Chris. “We’re the extras.”

“Right,” said a heavyset dude with a face like a boxing glove and no neck, and gestured with his head to a duffel bag. “Try them on. Coleen gave me the measurements. Hope they fit.” He held out a coal shovel of a hand. “Name’s Mitch.”

Introductions went round—first names only— and the foursome descended upon the clothes—gray slacks with a blue stripe, gray shirts with a ‘Security’ logo, and a gray cap with the same embroidered logo. They got dressed quietly and soon looked just like the other four. Only difference was that the burly guys slipped some cool-looking sunglasses up the bridge of their noses, and the four friends didn’t.

“Damn,” Kate whispered to Chris. “We should have brought ours.”

“Better not. It’s going to be dark soon,” he whispered back. “I wonder how they plan to catch the bad guys if they can’t see a thing.”

“Right,” said Mitch. “You know the drill? Coleen said you were seasoned pros?”

“Oh, yes, we are,” said Kirt with a wide smile.

Mitch eyed him skeptically, as did his three colleagues, but finally said, “All right, then. Good luck, and if you run into trouble, let me know ASAP.”

The foursome followed Mitch and his men out. Like Chris said, darkness had set in, and the Market Square was teeming with Brugeans who wouldn’t miss this event for the world. After all, you don’t get to see a mayor and an ex-mayor go toe to toe every day. Not even every year. According to the polls, a lot of the voters were still undecided, and perhaps tonight they would finally make up their mind about which candidate to favor with their vote.

A stage had been erected in front of the statue of Breydel and De Coninck, and a music band was regaling the audience with some folksy tunes in anticipation of the main event. Behind the band, imposing plaster bust statues of Jacques Van Damme and Piet Peeters dwarfed the musicians, giving the audience a great impression of the duo’s best smirks.

“You guys go after that pipe,” said Chris, and clapped Kirt on the shoulder.

“Good luck,” Kate said, and Lauren gave her a grim nod. Both she and Kirt were all business and ready for action.

The plan was that, while the four of them would try to find Jeanie and Hock, it was for Kirt and Lauren—whom the dangerous duo didn’t really know—to snag the pipe and whatever explosives they’d managed to smuggle backstage, at which point Chris and Kate would perform a citizen’s arrest.

Kate soon discovered it was hard to find anyone in a crowd like this, and what was more, she hadn’t been there for five minutes, before she ran into Franklin, who had finally decided to leave his room and see the sights while he was in Bruges.

In a few words, she explained what was going on, but then his gaze dropped to her hand, and when he saw the engagement ring, his face fell.

“Congratulations are in order I see?” he said graciously.

“I’m sorry, Franklin,” Kate muttered, not knowing what else to say.

“That’s all right, Kate. I just want to see you happy.”

She gave him a cursory hug, and he said, “I hope we can stay friends?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I would love nothing better.”

“Thanks. That’s all I wanted to hear. Now chop, chop, missy. I understand you have some very bad people to catch.”

It pained her to leave him like that, but, like he said, she was a woman on a mission, with no time to waste.

It was when she’d practically finished searching her part of the square, that her phone vibrated in her pocket. Picking up, she saw it held a message from Chris.

“Meet backstage.”

Just then a roar went through the crowd, and she saw that the two candidates had appeared on stage. Piet stepped forward and took his place behind the lectern, coughed into the microphone, and started his campaign speech.

There wasn’t much time left. Her dad would finish his speech, then Van Damme, and then, she figured, they’d smoke that infernal pipe together.

She wrestled through the rubbernecking crowd and finally arrived at the entrance to the backstage area, when she saw Hock, a walkie-talkie in hand. She tried to make a run for it, but a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and when she looked up, she saw that it was Mitch. Apart from his snazzy glasses, he was holding a gun that was aimed directly at her chest.

“I told you to stay away,” said Hock, a cold gleam in his eye. From behind him, another member of Mitch’s team frog-marched Chris into view. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was sporting a bloody gash on his forehead.

“Chris!” she cried.

“Hi, honey,” he said. “Look who I bumped into backstage.”

“Lock ‘em up,” grunted Hock, and Mitch roughly pulled Kate’s hands behind her back and zip tied them, then gave her a push in the direction of a white van parked within the backstage zone.

“Look, you don’t understand,” she said quickly. “Hock is going to kill my father.”

“None of my business,” Mitch said. “I just do as I’m told and I suggest you do the same.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Kate,” said Chris. “These guys have heads as thick as concrete. I tried to explain the situation and got nothing but snuffles and grunts.”

Mitch and his colleague walked them to the van, opened the sliding door and pushed them inside, then slammed it closed again.

“That went well,” said Chris, as he searched around for something to remove their ties.

“I just hope Kirt and Lauren are okay,” Kate said. She gave the side of the van a good kick, releasing some of her frustration. Suddenly, the door was yanked open and a red-faced Mitch appeared.

“Hey! Respect the van, lady!”

In answer, Kate kicked him in the stomach, and then kicked him in the side of the head for good measure. He went down without a sound.

“I’m sorry, Mitch,” she snapped. “It’s just that I have this thing about small spaces. They make me very angry!”

“That should make him think twice,” murmured Chris.

Just then, Mitch’s second-in-command appeared. He directed one look at Mitch’s body, slumped over, half inside, half outside the van, and went for his weapon.

“Let me do the honors, honey,” said Chris, ever the gentleman. With a single kick to the stomach, Mitch’s associate went down, his face contorted in silent agony.

“I really don’t like to be hit in the face, knucklehead,” bit Chris.

“Thanks, Chris,” Kate said, hopping out of the van.

“Any time, dear,” said Chris, joining her.

T
heir hands still tied
, Chris and Kate stormed through the backstage area on their way to the stage. All of a sudden, Chris espied a familiar figure lounging in what looked like a small VIP area where drinks were being served. It was Jeanie Geyser, and this time she had brought her camera crew. Judging from the stickers on the cameras, they didn’t belong to the local network covering the election but rather to her very own
Life in the Fast Lane
.

The moment she caught sight of the duo, she did a double take.

“Stop them!” she screamed, pointing one of her horribly long fingernails in their direction. “Stop those two!”

The cameraman turned round, sniffing action, and quickly zoomed in on Kate and Chris as they bore down on Jeanie, blithely ignoring his star’s cries for help.

“Where’s the pipe!” yelled Kate as she got into Jeanie’s face.

“You’re crazy!” yelled Jeanie back. “Go away!”

Rightly deducing from Kate’s wild-eyed glare that there wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to back off, Jeanie let out a blood-curdling scream, and started running around in circles like a headless chicken.

Since Kate couldn’t use her hands, and neither could Chris, she became creative. Taking a running leap, she vaulted into the air and landed on top of Jeanie like a tiger bringing down a gazelle. With a surprised yelp, Jeanie crumpled to the floor.

“Cool!” ejaculated the cameraman as he made sure he got a close-up of Jeanie’s goggle-eyed expression, a fine mixture of fear and loathing.

“Way to go, honey!” Chris said, and he would have pumped his fist, but of course his hands were still tied, so he couldn’t.

“Now where is that pipe!” screamed Kate at a dazed-looking Jeanie.

“On stage,” she finally screeched as Kate used her stomach as a trampoline, bopping up and down.

“Thank you,” grumbled Kate, and with some difficulty got to her feet. It’s not easy to get up when you can’t use your hands, and your feet are all entwined with those of a reality TV star.

“Oh, wow,” said the cameraman, licking his lips as he got all this on tape. “Ma’am. You’re going to be a hero. You can’t believe how long I’ve wanted to do that!”

Kate glared at him, and the guy blanched.

“That was great, honey,” Chris said, as they jogged to where they assumed the stage was.

“Yeah, well,” she said with a grimace, “if I’d had the use of my hands, I would have smacked her in the teeth.”

Life is full of these little regrets, Chris thought, but then they reached a curtain and, not knowing where they were, decided to go for it. Racing straight on through, they suddenly found themselves on stage in front of a sea of people, with the two candidates seated center stage, Hock standing behind them, a pipe in hand.

“Bomb!” Chris yelled as he made a run for Hock.

“Bomb!” yelled Kate as she ran to the candidates who sat glued to their seats.

As Kate hurled herself at their dads, and toppled them to the floor, Chris made a running leap for Hock, tackling him off the front of the stage into the crowd, which parted like the sea before Moses. Momentum carried them on, and after a brief spell of weightlessness, they collided, hard, with the ground beneath.

Fortunately for Chris, the plastic of the zip tie hadn’t sustained the fall as well as he had, and it snapped, finally freeing up his hands.

“You son of a—” Hock began, and took a swing at Chris.

From the corner of his eye, Chris saw smoke curling from the pipe. He ducked Hock’s swing, and went for the pipe.

“She’s gonna blow!” he yelled and grabbed the smoking pipe. The mass of people breathed a collective gasp of shock, and moved back in a body.

“Not until I say so, she’s not,” said Hock, and now stood before Chris with a small transmitter in his hand and a devilish grin on his face. “Stay right there,” he said, “or else I push this button and Kate will be a widow well before the wedding.”

“Don’t do this, Hock,” Chris said. “Really, what’s the point?”

“The point is that my dad, who’s the sweetest, most wonderful man in the world, has been made to suffer more than anyone should. And all at the hands of those two clowns up there! The point is that if it hadn’t been for their callousness and inconsiderateness, my parents would still be together, and my dad would be the happy man he deserves to be.

“Do you know what it feels like to see your father turn into a mere shell of the man he once was, to watch him die a little more each and every day?”

He stabbed an angry finger behind him, where the two candidates stood watching the drama from the stage.

“Those men are worse than Ebenezer Scrooge. They took a good man and turned him into a zombie. In twelve steps, they destroyed my home, my family and my life. And now it’s my turn to take theirs. They will suffer for what they’ve done.”

“Gabriel?”

A reedy voice piped up from somewhere in the crowd, and a smallish man, hunched over and aged before his years, stumbled into their midst, propelled forward by the mass of Brugeans.

“Dad?” said Hock. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s all this lunacy, son?” said Wallace Pruym, his mild eyes wide with shock.

“Dad,” said Hock, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Do you really mean to tell me that you’ve turned into some sort of… terrorist?”

“Dad, you don’t understand,” said Hock. “I want to make things right again for you, don’t you see?”

“This is making things right?” said Wallace, his voice trembling. “How is killing people right, Hock? How can killing people
ever
be right?”

“Dad, I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand to see you suffer by their hands. Look at you! They’ve destroyed you! I can’t let them get away with it!”

“The only one who is to blame for all this is me and me alone,” said Wallace. He brought a weary hand to his face. “I should have told you this a long time ago, son. I know I’ve been blaming all my troubles on my employers, but the truth of the matter is… they’ve always done right by me.”

“Van Damme put you in the hospital!”

“That was an accident,” said Wallace. “He fell on top of me.”

“Because he was drunk.”

“Yes, that’s true. He
was
drunk. In fact we’d been drinking together and I was at least as drunk as he was.”

“What?” said Hock. “I don’t believe you.”

“Better believe it, son.” Pruym raised himself to his full height, cleared his throat, and said, in resounding voice, “My name is Wallace Pruym and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober now for 1024 days.”

“This is madness,” said Hock, his eyes frantic. “They—
they’re
to blame!”

“No, they’re not,” said Wallace, slumping again. “The mayors have always been good to me. Jacques and I were… well, back in the day we used to drink together. And when Jacques went sober, he encouraged me to do the same. He’s my sponsor now. We go to the AA meetings together. And so does Piet. The three of us have been sober for years.”

From the stage, Piet coughed, and directed a censorious look at Jacques, who appeared appropriately remorseful for a change. “I
was
sober, until someone put alcohol in my drink,” he said quietly.

“Sorry about that, Piet,” said Jacques softly.

“So you see, son,” continued Wallace, “whatever trouble I’ve had, I’ve brought onto myself. Your mother left me because of the drink.”

“But I’ve heard you say—”

“What you heard was a man refusing to take responsibility for his own problems. Well, that ends now. I’m the one to blame for what happened.” He directed a pleading look at Hock. “So drop that weapon, son. It just won’t do.”

Hock slowly lowered his hand, but then suddenly changed his mind.

“No!” he said. “I’m going to make them pay!”

“You’ll blow us all up!” said Wallace.

“So be it,” said Hock through gritted teeth, in his eyes the mad gleam of a man at the end of his rope.

And then he pushed the button on the remote.

“Fire in the hole!” yelled Chris, and with a wide arc, threw the pipe away from him as far and as high as he could. It struck the two plaster statues at the back of the stage, and just when it was about to fall to earth, exploded with a deafening bang.

“Kate!” cried Chris.

Pieces of plaster and debris rained down on him, but he didn’t care. Jumping onto the stage, he raced over to where Kate lay huddled down, and threw himself on top of her, protecting her from the worst.

When he looked up, it was all over. The statues had been razed from the face of the earth, but no lives had been lost, and that was all that mattered.

“Are you all right?” he said, inspecting Kate.

“I’m fine,” she said. “How are the dads?”

Out of the welter, a sudden voice boomed. It was Piet. “Hock! You’re fired!”

“I agree!” echoed Jacques.

In spite of the situation, Chris and Kate had to laugh. Hand it to the politicians to put in the last word.